


In Repose

by Lady_T_220



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_T_220/pseuds/Lady_T_220
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin sleeps like the dead. Douglas doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Repose

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic prompt meme - [Original prompt](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2993935#cmt2993935)

Martin doesn't really sleep so much as simply crash hard, pretty much the moment his head touches any reasonably soft, horizontal surface. If questioned he will claim that it's merely a useful skill for a pilot to cultivate, and it's pretty much the only piloting skill he's never actually had to work at. Martin has the ability to sleep anywhere, at any time, despite the constant state of jet-lag brought on by flying back and forth across timezones. He's not a man who's ever suffered from insomnia.

Truth of it is though, that Martin has an enviable ability to sleep not due to any great natural advantage, but because he's almost constantly exhausted. It's not easy being Martin Crieff; mentally taxing, time-consuming career on the one hand, and physically demanding, time-consuming job on the other. He sleeps like the dead even on a good day but, like most men, the time he really falls the deepest is right after he's had sex. It would take bulldozers to wake him then. Hotel fire alarms certainly don't. (Douglas knows; he's tried it.)

Douglas, on the other hand, has never needed much shut-eye. He's been a night-owl and an early riser his whole life and a handful of hours will usually see him through quite happily. As a result, ever since he started living with Martin, he's spent an awful lot of time just watching the other man sleep instead. He's passed through finding it alternately both fascinating and agonisingly boring, and is now almost to the point where it's taken on a strange sort of meditative quality. Some people watch clouds. Douglas watches Martin.

As if on cue Martin snuffles and buries himself deeper into the pillows, just a tuft of ginger hair and the tip of his nose peeking out from beneath the cocoon of duvet he's rolled himself into. Douglas wonders endlessly how Martin doesn't die of heat-stroke wrapped up like that, but it seems not to bother him so Douglas long ago gave up trying to un-tangle the mess of blankets that wind themselves around Martin's limbs. Douglas tends to kick the covers off while he sleeps anyway, while Martin gathers them around him. Between them they usually reach some sort of compromise but it's cold this morning and Douglas has woken shivering and exposed and faintly weary of having to wrestle for his share of the duvet.

He rolls over and blinks at Martin dozily, grabbing a corner of the quilt and tugging it free from Martin's unresisting fingers before pulling it over himself with a grateful sigh. The fabric and the air beneath it are warm from Martin's body-heat, bare skin like a furnace against Douglas's chilled form. Douglas hums to himself in contentment, wrapping a broad hand around Martin's waist as he inches himself closer to that tempting heat.

The movement dislodges the blanket from over Martin's face, revealing a slightly sweat-damp forehead, eyes shut and jaw slack, his softly parted lips still pink and lushly swollen from the night before. Martin is curled up on his side, hands tucked beneath his chin in exactly the same position he'd dozed off in. He looks young like this, almost achingly vulnerable. Douglas can imagine all too easily how he would have looked as a boy tucked up in his solitary bed, but yet there's a faint, silvery streak of dried come smeared across his knuckles and Douglas has to repress the urge to give it a surreptitious sniff.

The tangible evidence of Martin's previous orgasm, not quite properly wiped away the night before, gives Douglas a warm, protective, slightly possessive flutter of arousal. A nameless, selfish part of him hopes that there's still evidence of his own release visible between Martin's thighs, a tell-tale smear of ejaculate where it's leaked from his body, and that when Martin does finally wake up he will still be just that little bit deliciously sore. Douglas wants him tender enough that he will choose to linger in bed, soft and biddable and entirely compliant rather than rushing out to make some sort of productive start on the day.

It won't happen, of course. Douglas may be a lecherous old goat at heart, but he can't deny that Martin does sometimes force him to be a realist at the most inconvenient moments. The alarm will go off at eight and Martin will get out of bed whether he's sore or not (he will be) and like every morning Douglas will endeavour to soak up as much of this silent intimacy as he can before the workday invariably intrudes.

Romance of course dictates that lovers should be seen as beatific and serene in their slumber, with a mysterious, sated smile gracing sensuous lips. It's a pleasant story of course, but it's not entirely true. Martin actually tends to scrunch his face up in a wrinkly sort of scowl when he's asleep, so he wakes more often than not looking somewhat crumpled and more than a little puffy. In fact Douglas can already tell that he'll have red pressure marks down the side of his face from having his cheek pressed into the pillows so hard all night. Also, he's kind of snoring. (Douglas makes a mental note to pick up a box of Lemsip later, Martin's probably coming down with another cold.)

It's very faint snoring, but it's definitely unmistakable. If Douglas were feeling particularly whimsical he would probably have equated it more to the gentle snuffling of a small woodland creature, but based purely on the fact that it's not loud enough to keep him awake it almost counts as endearing. Not that Douglas is willing to admit as such. At least not publicly, anyway.

As if on cue Martin snorts again, shifting down as if unconsciously aware of Douglas's proximity. The minute change in position reveals a messy, dark red love-bite, the mottled bruise lavishly sucked into his neck in a place that will only just be hidden by his collar. Douglas traces the edges of it with his gaze, satisfaction flaring in his gut as his fingers drift lower on Martin's bare hip. The skin under his hand is warm and smooth, the familiar jut of bone fitting almost perfectly into the cup of Douglas's palm.

He leans closer, pressing his nose against Martin's unruly mop of curls. The move allows Martin to burrow against his chest in lieu of his lost stretch of duvet. The rest of Martin follows suit a moment later, bare body pushing flush against Douglas in search of comfort. The soft, intimate swell of Martin's genitals presses innocently against Douglas's thigh and Douglas sucks in a breath at the contact.

His need for Martin doesn't seem to diminish, no matter how familiar they become with each other. Martin's face in his memory is always enticingly warm, flushed nearly as dark as his erect cock when it strains up towards his flat, pale belly. The image of Martin with his legs spread, hitched up as Douglas rocks into him, is always one of his favourites. In those moments Martin's expression is always somewhere between awe and exquisite agony, delicate fingers wrapped eagerly around his own prick as he jerks rhythmically to the tempo of Douglas's thrusts.

He can picture Martin's orgasm with knowing ease; a tense shudder and a mewling little gasp, a habit never quite outgrown after a lifetime of siblings and shared houses. Even now Martin is the only person Douglas knows who can both masturbate and climax in almost total silence, a skill learned simply to avoid detection. When they'd first started sleeping together Martin had swallowed his cries down so completely that Douglas had actually stopped halfway through, concerned that Martin was just too embarrassed to say he wasn't enjoying it. He'd ended up getting kicked back into motion by Martin's surprisingly eloquent legs squeezing around his midriff, Martin writhing and humping frantically against Douglas's weight even as he bit his lip to ribbons, eyes wide and desperate and quite achingly, beautifully blue.

Martin's not quite so reticent these days. At least not at home anyway, where there's no one to overhear them. Of course Douglas thinks that Martin's tendency to keep his mouth so tightly shut when they're in hotels is slightly undermined by the regular pounding of the headboard against the wall, but Martin doesn't seem to have noticed that and Douglas isn't going to be the one to point it out to him. (No matter how attractive he looks when he's blushing.)

Against his chest Martin begins to stir, muttering and huffing to himself even as he wraps his arm around Douglas's back, clinging on like a limpet as he fights the call of wakefulness. Douglas can't help running his fingers gently through Martin's damply tangled curls, cupping the back of his head protectively as morning light finally begins to filter through the gap in the curtains.

On the bedside table the alarm clock chirps loudly, the obnoxious shattering of the silence almost enough to make Douglas jump and Martin groans at the intrusion, face tensing in a mix of annoyance and discomfort as he uncurls enough to flop over onto his back. One arm flails blindly towards the bedside table to slap the alarm off before he stretches and yawns, mouth opening so expansively that Douglas's jaw almost cracks in sympathy.

"Morning," Douglas murmurs.

Martin squints blearily at him for a moment before his lips curl into a slow, lazy smile.

"Mmm," he replies. "Hello."

His voice is rough and thick this early and Martin looks unrepentantly sleep-tousled in the dawn light, rumpled and faintly debauched, rubbing his eyes with the back of his knuckles before realising there's still jizz clinging to one of them. He grimaces at the discovery, peering at his hand in distaste before scrubbing it ineffectually against the bedsheet. Douglas knows that if he leans down and kisses Martin right now it will not be even slightly wonderful. It will mostly just be awkward and a bit morning breath flavoured.

Not that that's ever stopped Douglas from doing it anyway. He always did find a certain kind of romance in domesticity.


End file.
